The splendor of being Hand of the King pleased Tyrion, but the duties of the office troubled him even more.
Tyrion's outer garment today was black velvet, studded with golden clasps shaped like lion heads. His necklace was made of solid gold hands linked together, fingers clasping wrists. Pod draped a dark red silk cloak trimmed with gold over his shoulders, a style cut specially for him. On an ordinary man, it would have been little more than a short cape.
Now that the Lannisters stood at the brink of life and death, Tyrion thought of the innkeeper's wife from the Inn at the crossroads, her withered corpse hanging like fluff in the wind. As Hand of the King, he had to focus on the great matters and leave the lesser ones aside, yet he still found himself forced to attend to everything personally.
"Your father won a great victory at the Trident," Bronn said admiringly.
"A great victory? It's worth boasting about in King's Landing, certainly. But what came of it? A victory that left both sides bleeding. Anyone paying attention will soon realize that the only noble dead among the northmen was that old wolf Rickard. The other old woman, Maege the she-bear, got away. Most of the rest were old men, cripples, and second sons. Those were the Winter Wolves sent to force a crossing, and when they saw they couldn't cross the river, they threw themselves into the fight instead. My father wiped out that wave of enemies, then slunk back to Harrenhal with his tail between his legs," Tyrion said with a frown. "If Storm keeps raging like this, he'll soon surpass what many men achieve in a lifetime of soldiering. He has already won three victories. I suspect he is brewing a fourth. The boy has a gift for war. Ambushes, raids, assaults. What he does best is dig in, blunt the enemy's edge, then strike after they have spent themselves."
The Winter Wolves were only cannon fodder and a diversion. But what about Storm? Would Storm truly stay at The Twins forever and allow The North to keep raising soldiers?
"You're right, but a victory is still a victory. It can lift morale, and we ought to let people know we've won. Besides, our reach only goes so far right now. We have to deal with Stannis and Renly first," Bronn replied.
Tyrion nodded. "Even a bitter victory has some value as propaganda."
Tyrion entered the Hand of the King's reception room. Today, he was receiving an arrogant guest. The Hand of the King's private audience chamber was much smaller than the king's, and it could not compare with the throne room, but Tyrion liked the Myr carpets, the wall hangings, and the sense of privacy it offered.
As soon as Tyrion stepped through the door, the steward called out, "Welcome Lord Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the King!"
Tyrion felt a little light-headed. In the past, as the king's uncle in King's Landing, he had counted as someone of importance. But the treatment he had received then could not compare with the glory of being Hand of the King. Joff rarely attended court, and Tyrion was the one rushing about handling everything. Perhaps this was what Varys meant when he said power came from men's hearts, allowing even a small man to cast a great shadow.
Not long after Tyrion took his seat on the high chair, the steward called out again. "Welcome the gospel of the Seven on earth, the High Septon."
The squat, fat High Septon entered the reception room at an unhurried pace. He was old, his hair gray-white, his body bloated. He wore a robe of pure white and a huge crown made of gold leaf and crystal, which flashed with rainbow light as he moved.
"This fat High Septon looks so lavish on the outside, and on the inside he's stuffed with straw. He'd best not let those poor folk hack him apart," Tyrion thought as he watched him, though such words could never be spoken aloud.
The Church's septons had to give up their family names, and each newly appointed High Septon had to abandon his worldly name as well. That made it difficult to distinguish one High Septon from another, so people used nicknames instead, like the fat High Septon.
"May the gods bless you, Lord Tyrion," the High Septon said with a beaming smile.
"May the gods bless us all, poor suffering lambs that we are," Tyrion replied with a smile of his own.
"Your High Holiness, I must apologize for what happened last time," Tyrion began. "For the bloodshed in the Great Sept of Baelor."
Tyrion already knew that the public beheading in the Great Sept of Baelor had been one of Joff's sudden whims, and that the toad of a Lord Commander of the Gold Cloaks had merely been his lackey. No one else had known beforehand.
"Lord Tyrion, if I may say so, shedding blood and killing in the Great Sept of Baelor was an insult to the gods above. And for the matter to be kept from me as well, defiling the Great Sept with blood. But what can we do? Our king is only a child. For the sake of his youth, the gods will forgive him."
"You are truly generous. I am sure the people will understand your good intentions," Tyrion said.
On matters of religion, Tyrion needed only to soothe the High Septon's feelings a little. Let this corrupt fat man go on thinking highly of himself. Foolish miser. He truly ought to lose some weight.
"Kindness is what the gods ask of us, and so we must act with kindness. We must love all men, and love the brothers and sisters around us. When you have leisure, you may come to the Great Sept to worship. Your heavy duties seem to have left you weary as well." The High Septon was as fat as a house, and even more pompous and long-winded than Pycelle.
Enough, old man. End it, Tyrion thought irritably.
"Your High Holiness, if you would listen to the voice of King's Landing, you would hear our people crying out from hunger."
"We suffer because we are sinful. This is all the arrangement of the gods above, Lord Hand. I believe the gods will protect the king and you. We shall endure," the High Septon said with righteous certainty.
"Prayers are not as useful as bread, beloved septon. If the people are starving, they will not care much for the majesty of the gods or the authority of the king," Tyrion reminded him. King's Landing had more than five hundred thousand people, and its citizens had started many riots before.
"They are merely unfortunate commoners, lives as cheap as grass. This too is the will of the gods," the High Septon said with a look of compassion, making it clear he would not pay another copper.
"Your High Holiness, these are devout believers. Surely you must show some concern for them. Hunger and panic are spreading through King's Landing."
"Lord Hand, forgive my bluntness," the High Septon said. "Our Robert, the late king favored by the old and new gods, still owes a great many golden dragons to the Great Sept of Baelor. Lord Petyr arranged that matter. The Church truly has no money left, nor supplies. I really cannot produce money to feed those poor mouths. Besides, the septons are all very concerned about when the royal family will repay the golden dragons owed to the Church..."
"Littlefinger. Always Littlefinger." Tyrion murmured the name as if it were a shadow. There were surely problems hidden in the old accounts, but time was pressing, and he could not cast that man aside now.
Tyrion looked at the fat High Septon and felt deeply disappointed. The man was a hard-bitten miser. Had he so much as pretended to make a gesture, he might have saved a little of his image. But Tyrion could not afford to offend the High Septon too deeply either, so he could only press so far.
The High Septon spoke again. "Lord Hand, with the wars so frequent of late, more people have been coming to the Great Sept to pray and offer supplication. Some of the alms given by these devout men and women could perhaps..."
"You are truly a kind man." Tyrion breathed out in relief and thanked him again and again. The High Septon's small amount of money and supplies was only a drop in the bucket, but at least it was a gesture.
After the High Septon left, Tyrion remained alone in the reception room, quietly considering his next move.
In terms of intelligence, Varys still seemed to support Tyrion for the time being, which was exactly why Tyrion's early work had gone fairly smoothly. In matters of finance, Littlefinger had also behaved himself and caused no trouble.
In military matters, Tyrion had Bronn and a small band of wildlings, as well as command over the small red-cloaked guard. He had also acted decisively and driven off the toad Janos, replacing him with Varys's recommendation, Ironhand Jacelyn Bywater, as Lord Commander of the Gold Cloaks, thereby gaining control over King's Landing's forces. Cersei would certainly be furious about it, but it had to be done. Aside from changing the Lord Commander of the Gold Cloaks, Tyrion had ordered the Smiths to forge all the chains, because the bit of wildfire Cersei had told him about had caught his interest. And then there were those useless captains. Every one of them looked suspicious.
"Food, food. There really is no good solution. The Riverlands are ruined, Highgarden is watching from the sidelines, ships can't get in by sea, and the Vale is still ruled by widows and orphans." Tyrion rubbed his head. This was the hardest problem of all, and there was no good way to solve it. For now, they could only endure. Even money could not buy food. "Impose a curfew. Keep the poor from gathering together."
"And then there are the three remaining ministers: Varys, Littlefinger, and the old maester." Tyrion weighed the three important officials in his mind. One of them had to be his sister's spy, but which one? He needed a way to test them.
Tyrion walked to the window and looked at the blood-red comet. Were there still pieces in his hand he had not used properly?
"Myrcella. Sweet little girl." Tyrion's eyes lit up, and in the end, he hardened his heart.
He would never let Tommen go. Tommen was second in line, their fallback. The key was Myrcella. He had to consider carefully where to send the girl. If the marriage alliance succeeded, it would bring a measure of support and military protection.
Highgarden, Dorne, and the Vale all had suitable male heirs. The question was whose strength was greater, and who could best solve their difficulties.
Tyrion forced himself to calm down, then considered that he could give three different destinations for the Princess to three different people, and see who the traitor truly was.
...
The night was black as ink, and King's Landing was in an uproar.
"Bread! Bread!"
Starving people shouted in the streets of King's Landing. They poured out of Flea Bottom, while the wealthy households along the way hurried to bar their doors and windows. These days, grain cost more than guards. The hungry and homeless joined the crowd one after another: beggars, drifters, and the poor.
A ragged mass of people formed a procession and rushed together toward the Red Keep.
There had been frequent unrest in the city of late. Refugees fleeing the war kept pouring into the capital, and many could only survive through robbery and murder. In such circumstances, hungry people were everywhere.
One ordinary person was only a drop of water, but a great crowd was a flood, especially when they were starving and full of resentment.
"We want bread! King Joffrey!"
"We want bread! We want bread! King Joffrey! Queen Dowager Cersei! Little Monkey Hand of the King!"
The voices of the crowd grew louder and louder, as if they were shaking the entire castle.
The Red Keep was brightly lit. The soldiers looked down nervously at the stream of beggars below, who shouted King Joffrey's name and begged for bread and comfort.
...
Because of the sudden turmoil in King's Landing, all the Red Guard had been mobilized, and the defenses around Maegor's Holdfast had loosened considerably. Sansa had finally found a small opening.
The red-cloaked swordsmen and a white knight from Maegor's Holdfast had all gone to find the king. Sansa Stark avoided the maids, who watched her like spies, and slipped into the night. She waited until the guards had gone some distance before hurrying across after them. When she saw the king, Sansa's heart tightened, but luckily he did not notice her. She continued on toward the Godswood.
Sansa could not forget the mysterious note she had found. She wanted to take the gamble.
"If you wish to go home, come to the Godswood tonight."
Sansa's heart pounded wildly. She had prayed so hard for so long. Could this be the god's answer?
Had the gods finally sent a true knight to save her? Perhaps it was one of the Redwyne twins, or the brave Ser Balon Swann. Perhaps even Beric Dondarrion, the young Lord with red-gold hair and a black cloak covered in stars, whom her good friend Jeyne Poole had once been madly in love with.
...
In the stables of the Red Keep, King Joffrey was cursing in a fury.
"Those mobs in King's Landing, vermin, the lot of them. If they're starving, they should go find a baker. Why come to me? Do they expect to enter the Red Keep and be fed? I'll teach them a proper lesson."
"Why have they come to make trouble?" the king demanded.
"Someone failed to hold their tongue and let slip that a wedding feast was being prepared for Young Lord Tyrek Lannister. So that rabble decided they ought to attend the feast as well."
"Put my armor on me," King Joffrey shouted.
Ser Preston stood beside the stables, helping Joffrey into his armor together with three other Kingsguard in moon-white cloaks.
"And my sword. My crossbow," the king barked on.
"Where is the Hound? Where is my dog?" the king asked, but no one answered him. The Hound was the king's favorite guard, but now he was nowhere to be seen.
The white knights exchanged glances. Everyone knew that after The Mountain died, the Hound had sunk into all sorts of amusements. Perhaps he was drinking again at this very moment. But none of them dared say so aloud. After all, they could not beat the Hound.
Unable to wait any longer, the king hurried up onto the castle wall under the protection of the four white knights and the others. His red armor was as bright as blood.
"King Joffrey, we want bread!"
"We hear you're preparing a wedding feast. Why not spare us a few bites?"
"That's right, our good king, give us something to eat."
The dark mass of starving people shouted from beneath the castle. Ragged and hateful-looking, they were gaunt with hunger, their anger all that remained. Unfortunately, they only stirred Joffrey's rage.
"This is all I can give you," Joffrey sneered, then tightened his grip on the crossbow in his hands. That fool was drunk, but his voice was the loudest of them all.
Whoosh!
The bolt cut through the air and pierced the petitioner's throat. Red blood sprayed out, blooming like a flower. Then the man collapsed limply to the ground, and from that moment on he would never be hungry again.
Joffrey was very pleased. This was what shooting could do. In the past, he had only shot cats and dogs. Now he had shot a man.
"Tyrant!"
"Tyrant!" a woman cursed. She wore no boots, her face was sallow, and her hair stuck out like a clump of wild grass. Seeing Joffrey's madness, she snatched up a stone and hurled it at him.